The Hunger Within
by EmeliaBrook
Summary: "The Hunger Within" depicts Katniss and Peeta's journey towards growth and lasting love. The timeline is set before the Epilogue of Suzanne Collins "Mockingjay" I was disappointed that Suzanne did not go into more detail as to how Peeta and Katniss recovered and how, through mental turmoil, they learned to love again. Thus, "The Hunger Within"is my imagined tale of their recovery.


Introduction:

The war is over, but it continues to rage within me. My eyes open and my eye close, but somehow the time is lost between the setting and the rising. I wake to the morning's light, but every breath that I breathe brings the hand that ties my chest in knots.

Where have I gone? I feel distant- almost as if I am disconnected from what I once knew…what I once thought necessary for my survival. I'm lacking contact, but I continue fighting against closeness. I hate being alone, but I hate owing others for their compassion more.

I miss the arms that once consoled me…the fingers that once brushed the hair away from my sweaty forehead. Peeta was always so brave for me…always so willing to save me from the nightmares that he experienced and relived himself. And all for what? To be rejected by my unrealistic attempts at romance.

Now I fear the moments when mutations project on the back of my eyelids- the moments when I am left alone to the tormentors of my subconscious. How willingly I once beckoned Peeta to my bed...only to dismiss his affections in the morning when the nightmares had dissipated. How desperately I needed him then…how desperately I feel I need him now.

Now…always now with me. I am impatient with my intentions, and must learn to question my every quarry. Was I simply using Peeta to level my instability…or was it more? Is it still more?

I close my eyes in confusion and drown myself within the coma that my mother created after my father's death. I never understood how hate…how fear…how hostility… could drive anyone to such extrication. Yet I seem to understand now. I have become the woman that I loathed as a child- the woman selfishly consumed by death. The death that _I_ saw…the death that _I_ caused.

A shiver shocks my spine as I am overcome by flash backs. Yes, I was trained to be strong, but my days of being the Mockingjay are over. I no longer am brave like I used to be. Rather I am a coward, devoid of the courage I once encompassed.

Anxiously, I begin to pace the living room. I walk to the window, inhaling the fresh air blowing through the curtains. Though the smell of spring lingers in the wind, I can still detect the distinct scent of primroses.

Naturally I am reminded of Prim and feel my throat tighten with guilt. She should have been spared instead of me…she was everything that this broken world needed. However her innocence was corrupted by the Capitol, and I remain in her place, mentally and physically unstable.

I hold back my tears now. How badly I wish Peeta was here to wrap me in his arms- the arms that once provided me my only sense of security.

Out of culpability, I stare at my hands before me and clench them into fists. Compared to Peeta, I have such worthless hands- hands that have let everything slip through their fingertips. Hands that have hurt more they have helped.

I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to deter the inevitable images from forming. Despite my efforts, though, they repeatedly reveal a gruesome reminder of Prim's death…the way her face warped as her skin seared- the way her hands twisted as her body succumbed to the ashes of a hundred other innocent children.

I fall to the floor, unaware of anything but the fire behind my eyes. It hurts to acknowledge that I have lost everything…and it hurts more to accept that I could not control the outcome. In reality, I have had little to no choice in the events that have unfolded within the last two years of my life. The Hunger Games, the Victory Tour, the Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12, the Quarter Quell, the Rebellion, the Mockingjay…I have _always_ been doing what I've been told, and I suppose that is what scares me the most- I sacrifice myself so willingly.

I pull my knees to me chest and breathe deeply through my nose. _Inhale, exhale_, I remind myself of the action that Dr. Aurelius encouraged me to do during times of anxiety. _Oh, anxiety_…I hate feeling anxious, and I hate being alone when these waves of panic overtake me…_will it ever stop?_ _Will it ever really end?_

At least there is condolence when Buttercup comes to console me…or to be consoled by me. It makes no difference, though. After the death of Prim, we readily realized our similarities and the comfort in one another's company. Prim was our grounding- our sense of calm within chaos. Without her, there was no reason for us not to be friends. After all, how could we neglect our need to be reminded of her legacy?

Sensing my sadness, Buttercup nudges against the side of my face, purring sympathetically into my ear. I thank him for his understanding and lovingly wrap my arms around him. Burrowing my face into his fur, I allow sleep to consume me.

Chapter 1:

My rest is short lived. Nightmares have replaced my dreams, and it seems fear has overcome what little hope I have left.

I lift my body from the floor. Through the window, I see that the sun has begun to rise. Red, orange, and yellow lights emerge from the darkness and sprawl across the hardwood floor. If my mother was here, she would have interpreted this as a metaphor of optimism. I can hear her voice now, "A new day, a new start, Katniss." But I'm belligerently bitter and can only mutter a phrase of cynicism.

"A new day, a new hell, mother." I chide.

My callousness temporarily cracks as my lips curl into a smile. With my new-found sarcasm, my spirits seem to have improved. I decide against sleeping and put on my leather jacket and boots. _Today is a day for hunting_, I conclude.

I close the door behind me and breathe in the fresh air. With no walls to entrap me, I feel free- the woods have always been my escape.

I walk the path to the woods with certainty- more certainty than I have since returning to District Twelve. After crying, my head feels clearer and my body feels lighter. My teachers would have related this to the endorphins released after crying- relieving pain and promoting optimism- but I know there to be an explanation beyond the biological. It is just the woods. Dr. Aurelius claimed it to be my nature therapy.

And therapy it is. Springtime has embraced the woods, and all appears to be new in its vibrancy. The mockingjays sing overheard, and I am lost within the world that my father and Gale first introduced to me to.

The spring used to be my favorite season. With the snow off of the trails, I could come and go as I pleased without fear of being found out. Considering game was most plentiful during this season, Gale and I even had time to spare.

We would sit in the meadow and watch as buds bloomed and the mothers of animals taught their young. We wouldn't speak...we didn't have to. Within the silence, there was enough that was spoken between the two of us. My and Gale's relationship was simple in that sense.

I smile at the thought of my loved ones and raise my head to meet the sun. For the first time since returning to District Twelve, I feel warmth course through me. This has always been my home. This will always be my home.

I begin to reacquaint myself with my bow, taking time to aim every arrow. My hands still shake, but I refuse to let this relinquish my efforts. Rather, I start practicing with targets, watchfully raising and releasing each shot. Once I gain a sense of steadiness, I move on to targeting squirrels. Though my first kill is sloppy, I manage to put an arrow through a rabbit's eye on my fourth attempt.

With my re-instated skill and confidence, I fully lose myself within the woods and begin to set up small snares and fishing nets in the stream. As the day progresses, I even collect wild herbs for cooking and medicinal use like my mother taught me.

I suppose I needed this day more than I knew. Being alone in the forest has made me remember who I am…but it has also reminded me of Gale.

I stop walking as suddenly as I had started. Although I had acknowledged that I would never hunt with Gale again, I had never allowed myself to accept it. How could I? The man that I allowed myself to trust killed my sister…How could anyone bear to accept that? Whether intentional or unintentional, accident or not; I could never see Gale again.

The warmth that I possessed hours ago leaves me, and I feel exhaustion take its place. When fatigue fully finds me, I have to rest despite my reservations. I choose a budding tree to sit beneath and close my eyes.

At first I am with Gale, walking along the forest path- too close to be just friends. He closes his hand around mine as we enter the clearing…and then the world turns to black.

I hear Rue's voice calling my name. I stumble through the darkness trying to find her. However, when light finally shines before me, I see a spear burrowed in her stomach and blood pouring into her cupped hands. I scream, but a growl soon engulfs the volume of my terror.

Within minutes, I see the mutation's eyes- their canine, yet human eyes. As they bare their teeth and bark with brutality, I feel my body cower. Preparing for their teeth to sink into my flesh, I accept my own death. Their teeth never come, though. Instead a roar of agony escapes from Peeta's mouth, causing my eyes to shut out of fear.

When I open them, I suddenly am standing atop the cornucopia, holding my bow and arrow. I do not help Peeta, though. Rather, from a bird's eye view, I watch as his limbs are torn from his body and the last cries of pain part from his lips.

I never flinch…I never feel the formidable feelings that I should. I am unexpectedly emotionless- devoid of the human condition. I carelessly look upon Peeta's mutilated body and decide to take the nightlock berries from my pocket. I stare at them in anticipation. _There is nothing left for me…this is it_, I think. I raise the berries to meet my lips, but before I can commence my own death, President Snow stands before me.

I smell the roses that have always made my stomach stir. Snow looks at me in concern. "Oh, Katniss, I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?"

Abruptly my eyes open, and I find myself lying within a field of dandelions. I'm shaking, but I do not feel afraid. I have understood my dream, and I have found reassurance within its meaning. There is hope…not the kind of hope that my mother promised a new day would bring; but the kind of hope that these dandelions once represented to me as a child… the kind of hope that Peeta once gave to me.

I bask in the yellow of the dandelions, regaining my strength. The sun is setting, and the field and sky have become a blur of warm colors. It's beautiful to look at, but I know that I cannot stay. Before I leave, though, I gather a few dandelions and place them with my other collected plants.

"As a reminder," I whisper to myself.

I start on my way home, one foot in front of the other. I'm slower than I'd like to be, but I don't press my precincts. Instead I maintain a slow pace and revel in the lushness of the green around me. As I walk, I realize my envy for the forest. It is everything that I wish I could be- calm and collected…wise in the ways of the cosmos.

I sigh and stop to catch my breath. Beyond my jealousy for the forest, I detect nostalgia developing. Nostalgia for what once was- nostalgia for the normalcy that I once had with my faithful father and Gale. They were the only influences that I had growing up. They were the only individuals who taught me how to take care of myself and my household.

I remember the moments that I once had with my father. The days when he first taught me how to string a bow, how to shoot an arrow, how to gut my first kill.

We had an indescribable bond- a bond that few ever experience in their lifetime. Just like my and Gale's relationship, my father and I never had to speak to express ourselves; we just inherently knew and understood one another. I can only wonder if my father had known then that he was going to die... that he needed to entrust his survival skills to me. After all, if it weren't for my father, my family and I would not have survived starvation…

The thought makes me cringe as emaciated images of my mother and Prim flash before my eyes. The painful pangs of hunger written upon their bodies- Prim's protruding rib cage and jutting hipbones, my mother's gaunt face and sunken eyes.

Sadness begins to seep into my heart, but I quickly avoid it by moving on. Trying to keep my thoughts from my family, I once again think about the beauty of spring and the newness that it has brought to the earth. With everything budding into fruition, it reminds me of the changes being made in my own district- its rebirth and renewal. I smile at the thought, and unexpectedly realize that I am home.

Rounding the side of my house, I pass the primrose bushes planted beneath my living room windows. As expected, my thoughts pass from spring and linger upon Prim. Rather than sensing sadness, though, I notice a newborn nerve. No longer does the guilt from last night linger; rather courage and strength remain in its place.

Prim would have never wanted me to feel remorseful- never would have wanted me to blame myself for her death. After all, I had no way of knowing what was to come…no way of preparing a way for her to escape the inescapable.

Prim would have wanted me to be happy…would have wanted me to move from the suppressed sense of guiltiness I feel. Deserved or not, she always forgave me. She always understood that I was only ever trying to help and only ever trying to protect her. I suppose she gained this intuition from my father as well.

Ashamed of my behavior, I analyze my state of self- pity. How selfish I have been- thinking of only myself. Not eating, hardly sleeping. I should have been trying to follow in Prim's footsteps, but I failed to even take care of myself.

Realizing my ignorance and irresponsibility, I begin to further realize what I must do to right my wrongs. Instead of living in the past, I must live in the present as Prim always did. Reaching for the door handle, I come to a conclusion- I can no longer hide.

For Prim's sake, I decide to face myself for the first time since returning to the Victor's Village. I make my way to the bathroom and avoid eye contact with the mirror as I undress myself. While waiting for the water to warm, I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

I step into the shower. The water is hot, but it only scalds the scarred, sensitive areas of my skin. I wince, but continue to work through the discomfort. I run my hands over my body and comb my fingers through my hair, dislodging the dirt from the day's hunt. With each stroke, my hands pass from my scalp to my stomach. My hair has grown long- my mother would be proud.

In her honor, I weave the dandelions that I collected into my braid after I dry myself off. She used to do the same during the spring celebrations of my childhood. After all, before the explosion that killed my father, festivals and feasts accompanied the warmer months of District Twelve.

I smile in remembrance at the laughter and dancing. How different life was then. How different I was then. Once a girl with rosy cheeks, and now a woman burned and scarred.

I begin to roll the edges of my towel between my fingers out of anxiousness. There is a part of me that wants to hide behind this terry cloth forever, but I know that I have to step from my discomfort to grow. Breathing deeply, I prepare to release the towel from my figure. I stare at myself in the mirror and grimace as the fabric falls to the floor. Focusing in on my body, I notice that the patchwork is painful to look at.

I trace the outlines of my grafted skin- the different colors and textures that each is patterned with. The burns don't bother me like I remember them to. In fact, they remind me that I am alive.

I may be scarred, but I have become strong with every scar. In a way, my pain has become my purpose and my body has become a tale of the tragedies of war. For once, I have something that cannot be changed by the capitol. For once, I can be myself.

I no longer have to be a tribute or a victor. All I have to be is Katniss Everdeen. I breathe a sigh of relief and begin to dress myself. With each article of clothing, my marked skin is concealed. I stare at myself in the mirror and feel a sense of acceptance overwhelm me. _Maybe I can become the girl with rosy cheeks again, _I think to myself.

As I emerge from the bathroom, a waft of freshly baked bread and stew meets me. I have not eaten, and I immediately realize how hungry I am. I rush down the stairs and run into the kitchen. _Sustenance over stability_, I think.

Greasy Sae stands over the stove, stirring her stew. Her granddaughter, Fern, grinds herbs in a mortar and pestle beside her. And in the corner of the kitchen, Haymitch sits slumped in a chair- cognizant, but drunk enough to be drooling.

Ordinarily, the sight would have been standard. Since returning to District Twelve, the four of us have been eating together every evening. However, I soon see Peeta lifting his head from beneath the table...

I am taken aback by his attendance. After he planted the primrose bushes beneath my window, his presence has been scarce. Daily, he delivers bread to me by way of Greasy Sae; but when invited to stay for meals, he declines. For what reason, I cannot recall. But I suppose that I asked for space by my lack of response to his calls or letters.

Suddenly I feel ashamed. My eyes rest upon a pile of unread mail. Although it's half-hidden on the counter-top, I feel conscious of its neglect. How cold I must seem…though Peeta has been in the same state of trauma as I have been, he still has managed to maintain contact. He still has managed to work through pain and incorporate me into his progress.

With a slight sigh, my eyes move back to Peeta. He's wiping the front of Haymitch's shirt, attempting to disguise the stains that the liquor-laden drool has left. While I watch, I notice that the fogginess has faded from his eyes and has been replaced by clarity. He has grown, and his shoulders and chest are broader. Even the boyish softness that once formed his face has been substituted by structure.

Peeta looks well- almost too well. If the burns on his face weren't visible, I would have forgotten that he was scarred like me- forgotten still that he was scarred more severely by me. After all, he had been psychologically tormented by the tracker jackers of the Capitol.

My face falls at the thought. Perhaps Peeta would never be able to think of me the same. Perhaps he would never be able to place what was real or not real between us. However, maybe the same was true for me…I relish in the realization and look down at my bare feet. In nervousness, I begin to wiggle my toes.

At that moment, Haymitch snaps from his drunken stupor, flailing his arms and legs. After resting in the recognition of his surroundings, he begins to smile at me.

"Nice dandelions, sweetheart." He sarcastically states.

I remember the flowers in my hair, and I feel my face flush. How ridiculous I must appear, tainted by the red of my blush and the yellow of the petals placed in my braid. Embarrassed by my own femininity, I look to the floor before gradually glancing up. I notice Peeta's eyes upon me.

Instinctually, I cower backwards, expecting his hands to close around my neck…However, when my fear subsides, I realize that Peeta is chuckling with Haymitch at my obviously amusing antics.

I scowl with uncertainty and hesitantly address the man staring at me. "Hello, Peeta. It's nice to see you."

The sentence feels forced, but the silence is temporarily sedated.

"It's always nice to see you, Katniss." He states with serenity.

I'm surprised by the softness in his voice and the genuine smile parting his lips. How could this man ever have been a threat to me…especially when he has a voice of velvet? I feel my face flush again, and I unexpectedly melt in the moment. Even the Capitol could not corrupt Peeta's compassion. Even the Capitol could not take away the goodness engrained within him.

_Clang, clang_! My thoughts of admirations are abruptly interrupted by the bellowing of Greasy Sae's dinner bell.

"Everyone to the table, please," she politely orders as she announces the serving of her venison stew.

We all gather around the table and engage in small talk while we eat- Haymitch's plans of purchasing geese, Greasy Sae's upcoming stew recipes, and Peeta's plan to rebuild the bakery. Normally I would have found such talk meaningless, but I can't help but to feel content in the moment- to feel as if I finally have a family again.

Nevertheless, to avoid being noticed for my lack of notable additions to the conversation, I mumble responses every now and then. Beyond the dialogue, though, Fern and I make faces from across the table. We even mimic the gestures of Haymitch's drunken display.

Our charades are not an abnormal addition to the table, though. In fact, they have been a reoccurring remedy since the death of my father. Considering Prim was young when he passed, I felt as if the sadness had to surpass her.

Meal-times were always difficult for us. We never had quite enough food on our plates, and the empty chair that greeted us from across the table was haunting. I began making faces at Prim as a way to prevent her from understanding the depth of death- as a way to protect her from the empty promises of hope that my mother made to her.

I suppose Fern reminds me of Prim. From Fern's mannerisms to her personality, I feel as if I must protect her from the present state of the world. Although she has already lived through the legends of war, I want her to remember the roots of her childhood- remember that it is alright to be a little girl. I never had the opportunity to experience the joys of juvenility, and I would never want to wish it on Fern. Childhood is meant to be filled with blissful ignorance, and that is what I hope to bring to her.

Unfortunately, Fern's grandmother doesn't approve of our game. She believes that Fern must to develop decorum in order to marry into a more affluent family. Consequently, I feel a sharp kick from under the table and a look from Greasy Sae demanding that I stop. I do as I'm told, but I can't help to think that children are easier for me to understand than adults.

When we finish our meals, I volunteer to wash the dishes for Greasy Sae. Though it appears I am petitioning for forgiveness, five-year old Fern looks exhausted after our game of charades. I would hate to delay her sleep due to her grandmother's duties. It's already a long enough walk to get her home and into bed.

Catching my concern for Fern's well-being, Peeta immediately offers to help me clean the dishes. He hesitantly moves towards me, and we begin clearing the table. At the sink, we stand awkwardly, taking turns to wash or dry.

While we continue to clean, we even develop an interesting dance. It involves dodging elbows, hands, feet, and any other body part that could possibly come into contact with the others. I suppose the unexpected slides and twirls would be humorous to watch, but the slightest contact of skin sends my stress signals soaring.

I've missed being with Peeta, but being close to him is surprisingly uncomfortable. Our movements seem meticulous- almost as if we are skeptical of each other's actions. I suppose that is to be expected after all that has happened to us, but it is still difficult to adjust to.

I close my eyes and attempt to imagine the moments of normality that once existed between Peeta and I. The moments when we did not fear one another. The moments when we could sit in each other's presences and place our memories on the pages of my father's edible plant book. But more than anything …the moments when we could kiss, touch, and feel one another's bodies…and not feel as if we would harm the other.

We were comfortable during our moments of intimacy- not necessarily happy- but content enough to feel safe despite our second admittance into the Hunger Games. Yes, comfortable enough to even trust the silence that surrounded us.

Suddenly, a plate crashes against the linoleum, loudly littering the floor with glass. I jump at the sound and cower against the wall. _Inhale, exhale_, I remind myself to breathe.

To avoid panicking, I make myself sit down on one of the kitchen chairs- the chair furthest from Peeta that is. I know that I'm being unreasonable, maybe even irrational; but it's frustrating to feel on edge, especially when attempting to fake confidence with the man who tried to kill me.

"Katniss," I hear Peeta whisper as he hesitantly approaches me from across the room. I bury my head in my hands, trying to avoid the inevitable conversation to come- the flurry of real or not real questions to flow from his mouth.

"Katniss?" Peeta whispers again with a certain degree of concern in his voice.

"Katniss?!" His tone rises further with apprehension.

I hear his pace quicken with my lack of response, and I feel badly for making him move with his prosthetic. He appears stiff today, but I can't muster the courage to face him. Rather I stare at my palms and wallow in my own weakness.

I'm not scared of Peeta…I'm scared of what I feel for him. I know that my expectations are unreasonable and have left me susceptible to stagnation. After all, how could I think that Peeta and I could rightly revert to the relationship we once had?

My thoughts are interrupted as Peeta's footsteps stop at my side. I hear him take a deep breath before placing his hand on my head, and I anxiously do the same. As he tries to turn my face towards him, I feel his fingertips shaking. After yearning for his touch for so long, it feels unfamiliar to me. It's not the same touch that it used to be. It's colder and not certain of its love. I attempt to maintain my composure, but it seems I can't cure my disappointment.

_Nothing is the same as it used to be. _I conclude quietly to myself. _Could it ever really be?_

I look up at Peeta's face for an answer and begin to cry from what I see.

"Katniss, what is wrong," Peeta pleas as he bends down to look at me.

Just as I feared, Peeta is not stable either. His hands are clenched into fists and his knuckles are white from how tight his grip is. My anxiety is triggering some sort of twisted flash back behind his eyes, and he's trying not to let himself lose control. Even more, though, he's trying not to let me see how vulnerable he is to violently unraveling before my eyes.

I squeak out of fear as I try to reply to his question. _Everything, _I think, but I reply with nothinginstead.

Peeta gives me one last concerned look before pulling up a chair next to my own. Without further inquisition, he slowly, almost unwillingly unclenches his fists and begins to run his shaking fingers over the back of my cotton shirt. He doesn't pry…doesn't persist. He just lets me be while he sits in the chair next to me.

Without concern for my well-being or that of Peeta's, I continue to cry for attention. I can't help but to hope that his fingertips will cease to tremble...that his touch will again be filled with tenderness. However, I soon realize my irrationality and the danger within my ambition…if anything, the quivering in his hands has gotten worse. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for Peeta to continue to comfort me. I can only imagine the thoughts traveling throughout his mind. He could hurt me…he could kill me…I immediately make myself stop crying at the thought.

Sensing this, Peeta rests his hand on the side of my face to rouse me. "Let's go for a walk, Katniss" he gently says. "You can take me home."

We walk together through the grass, adorning our bare-feet with the dew from dusk. The water is cold, but the moonlight reflecting off of the droplets makes the discomfort well worth it.

Above our heads, the full moon materializes, casting long shadows across the houses of the Victor's Village. Crickets chirp loudly; and fireflies flash iridescent messages to their unmet mates. Everything is temporarily disguised in an eerie display, and somehow I feel as if I am in a dream that I once dreamt.

As Peeta and I continue to walk, our shadows cross and meet, becoming one. I suddenly feel fevered by what is being depicted. "Becoming one" has crossed my mind more than once, but tonight, the surge of the moonlight has deepened my desire. All I want is to be close to Peeta- to feel his warm body near to my own...

I focus on the present instead. The reality of the moment before me. The weather has grown cooler, and it feels nicely on my stinging eyes. After crying for such a long period of time, they have grown red with irritation. I lovingly look over at Peeta and unpredictably meet his gaze.

Out of shame, I feel as if I must apologize for my earlier illogicality. I stop walking and begin to say I'm sorry. However before I can make my uncouth tongue form the words, Peeta raises his hand to my cheek and begins tracing the outlines of my features.

I stop blinking…maybe even breathing. "Peeta…" I whisper, attempting to deter the dream I _must_ be having.

"I remember, Katniss…" Peeta speaks as he delicately redeems a dandelion from my braid.

"Remember what, Peeta?" I ask sardonically.

"I remember watching you from across the schoolyard. It was after our encounter at the bakery, and you had not acknowledged me since. You must have noticed me staring at you because you looked up at me that day. Something in your eyes had changed, something that had not been there before. There was hope, love, maybe even happiness? You looked away quickly and rested your sights on what I think was a patch of dandelions." Peeta begins to roll the golden flower between his fingers, almost knowingly. "I remember the way you looked at me that day, Katniss…it was just how you looked at me a few moments ago."

I feel my palms begin to sweat and my heart begin to race…how could it be possible that Peeta could remember that day? It was so forgettable… so perfectly plain…

Maybe there was something special to me, but for Peeta to have noticed. For Peeta to have remembered such a trivial moment in time…I can only sigh and look up.

"Real or not real, Katniss?" Peeta asks as he walks closer to me. "Real or not real…" he asks again breathlessly.

I bite my lip to keep it from quivering. "Real..." I state surely as I stare at him.

He exhales slowly, and I can't help but to watch his lips loosen and let free their anxieties. More than anything, though, I can't help but to admire the shape of his lips and the fullness formed around their middle. So purely plump…

Peeta's fingertips reach out for my face again, making their way from my forehead to my bottom lip. There they unsteadily linger. I feel my breathing quicken as his breath grows closer to my cheeks. I close my eyes and wait. Only death or life awaits me now.

Peeta's lips cautiously meet and melt into mine. I gently press my body into his, and we lose ourselves within the light of the fireflies around us. I'm not sure if what we are experiencing is love or the repressed desperation that we've felt for the other; but our tongues pull apart and fuse together as if a frenzy. No longer are we the innocent children who once kissed delicately during the Hunger Games. These kisses are full of passion and persistence…admiration and warmth. This…this moment is not a dream. This moment is real.


End file.
